


The Unstoppable Force

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Cancer, Caring John, Dying Sherlock, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Frontage, Hand Jobs, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-28
Updated: 2014-06-28
Packaged: 2018-02-06 12:46:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 4,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1858557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes predicted that he would be dead before forty. This is the story of how he died.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I would just like to mention that I made this story, these chapters, and most of the sentences, so short for a reason. Panic, desperation, and need would probably force Sherlock's mind into a more fragile state, making it harder for him to form running thoughts. That is why everything is so brisk. This was a very different style for me to write in, and I hope I didn't slaughter it.

Sherlock was awake. He was wide awake. He’d never been more awake, more alert in his life. He could hear every small sound, see every little, insignificant thing. Every breath of air was the cleanest he had ever had. It filled his lungs, teasing his airways, teasing the taste buds on his tongue. He’d never felt more alive.

Sherlock was dying. He was slowly fading away. He’d never been more shocked, more perfectly stumped in his life. He went through everything, thought about every moment in his life that had led him up to this point. Everything was grey, fading in and out, refusing to give him the pleasure of reviewing it. He’d never felt so lost.

There was nothing, nothing to be done. He knew, knew that this was a killer. Knew he was stupid. He had seen it, had recognised it, had hidden it from John. He had ignored it.

John hadn’t noticed his flatmate slowly falling apart. The infallible Sherlock Holmes, slowly fading away before him, every day losing part of himself. He hadn’t noticed, because Sherlock hadn’t wanted him to. Sherlock had been trying to save him from that, to keep him from feeling the weight as well.

This was just another piece of information that he hadn’t wanted to share.

Dead before forty. He had predicted that when he was eight years old. He lived too fast, too loud, too reckless. He had no regard for his own life and just barely any regard for the lives of those around him. He was stupid, in that way.

Unfortunately, his stupidity wasn’t killing him. His stubbornness had signed his death note.

“There’s… there’s nothing…?” Just because he knew, didn’t mean that he couldn’t ask.

The doctor shook her head, handing Sherlock a bottle of pills. “These will make it painless, if you decide to take them. Knowing you, you probably won’t.” She knew, then, that Sherlock had been keeping an eye on it, that he had known from the start. “Why you even came in is beyond me. You knew, so why?”

Sherlock shook his head, unable to form his mouth around the words that could answer her question.

_Because John is a doctor. Because John would make me come in. Because John would demand that something be done to save me. Because John would look for a miracle until I was dead in front of him._

“Didn’t want to go through chemo or radiation,” he said instead, which was, he supposed, a partial truth. He would have died if he had lost his hair. “Walking around bald for months on end…” he made a revolted face, earning him an exasperated laugh from the doctor.

“Well… you have the pills. Take them, don’t take them, it’s your choice,” she said, scribbling on her clipboard.

Sherlock got up to leave, turning up his collar as he moved to walk out. He paused in the doorway, turning around to look at the doctor.

“How long?”

She looked up, frowning for a moment. “A week. At most, Sherlock. One week.”

Sherlock nodded, and then he left.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've officially decided that this story is better read as a whole, so I will be posting the whole thing today. I'm keeping it in chapters, though, because I like it that way.

Time is an inconsistent measurement. A second can stretch on for years, and years can be gone before the blink of an eye.

Theoretically, time is constant. It is dependable. It never moves, never yields, never bends. It is the Unstoppable Force that dictates us all. Time tells us when to wake up, when to eat, when it’s time for tea. When to say hello. When to say goodbye.

Time has its own rules.

Sherlock Holmes was never much of a person to follow the rules.

“John?” he called, entering the flat and immediately ridding himself of his scarf and coat. He wasn’t sure how long he was planning on staying in, but he wasn’t going to continue wearing the coat. Not with the bottle of pills sitting, like a silent snitch, in his right pocket.

Footsteps on the stairs brought Sherlock back, made him turn and raise his eyebrows as John came down from his room.

“Christ, Sherlock, where have you been?” he demanded, hands settling on his hips. He’d been hanging around Mrs Hudson too often lately.

Sherlock glanced John over, noticing his ruffled hair from pulling at it, the dampness around the base of his neck. He had been pacing, combing his fingers through his hair. Worried?

“I called you at least seven times!” John exclaimed, pulling Sherlock away from his deductions.

He narrowed his eyes. “Why so much concern? I’ve left before and you didn’t get so upset. You left for a full two weeks once and I hardly noticed.” John was concerned for him? Had something happened? Was there something important going on that Sherlock didn’t know about? A case?

John let out a long breath, holding up his hand and turning away, shaking his head.

“Mycroft called,” he finally said, carefully, treading dangerous waters. Ice was about to break. It was cracking, cracking, splintering, groaning under the weight of the words. Not moving would mean death. Moving would mean death. No safe escape, no safe route.

John turned around, and his expression was tight, concealed.

Sherlock very near panicked. Mycroft. How would _Mycroft_ know? Cameras, sure. CCTV, sure, but he wasn’t a mind reader. If Sherlock had kept it hidden from John, then Mycroft shouldn’t have noticed.

Think think _think_. What else could Mycroft be calling about.

The ice froze, solidified. Sherlock was stable, safe, the tide calm below him.

He let out a frustrated breath and rolled his eyes, undoing the button of his suit jacket and walking over to the desk. “Please, John. Do you really think that, after everything, I would return to drugs _now_? Just because of the stupid number on the calendar?”

Time was controlling. Time dictated things, actions, change, reactions. Time said that it was the anniversary of an event. Time told you how to feel about the passing of a year. Time told you when to mourn, when to be happy, when to throw a party.

Time had a death grip on everything that lived.

“I am clean, John. I promise. I just went for a walk.”

He glanced up, seeing John’s unconvinced face.

“Do I really have to show you my arms just to prove to you that I’m not high? Seriously, John. It’s been three years. I’m over it. As should you be. As should Mycroft be. Everyone can just be over it! Sentiment is annoying.”

“Sherlock, they were your bloody parents!” John shouted, obviously pissed off about something that Sherlock had said.

“Congratulations on keeping up with the conversation, John,” Sherlock remarked, opening his computer and waiting for it to load his email. “Now, I said I was over it. I promised that I am not high, and I did not go out to purchase any drugs. I was clean two years ago, I was clean five minutes ago, and I am clean now. So, please…”

Sherlock sighed, gesturing John to take a seat in his chair, wanting things to settle down for the moment.

One week.

He didn’t want to spend it mad at his best friend.


	3. Chapter 3

John was in his chair, reading the post. Or at least, he was pretending to. Sherlock knew better. He always knew better. John was just sitting in the room, his eyes skimming the words, not taking in the pictures, flipping the pages when he estimated the correct amount of time had passed.

He estimated wrong, of course. Usually five or ten seconds too fast or too slow.

Time narrowed down everything people did, told them when to turn the page, when to set the book down. Told them when to pause, when to start, when to look up.

“Seeing as you’re not doing anything,” Sherlock started, leaning back in his chair to look over at John, “grab your phone and look through your emails. I need a case.”

John sighed, but he complied, no doubt thinking that Sherlock needed a distraction.

Correct, for once. Well, no, not for once. John was unusually bright, for an idiot. He just couldn’t recognise when he was, and it was usually on accident.

He was instinctive, then.

“Anything specific?” John asked, already scanning through his emails, furrowing his brow at a couple and moving on.

“Just read them off.”

He had already gone through his emails, through the messages on his website. None of them were appealing, none of them were what he needed.

John read. And read. And read a little more.

Sherlock was silent. Taking in each syllable of John’s voice, the way it would tilt up with interest and then down as the email became boring. The way he would pause over some words. Try to skip over others. Repeat some more.

In a flurry of motion, Sherlock stood, pacing over to his coat.

“Sherlock?” Uncertainty in John’s tone.

“I need a murder,” Sherlock growled, pulling out his coat and sending a message to Lestrade, demanding that he let him in on their most recent murder case.

“Sherlock, there will be plenty of murders later. Can’t you do something… mundane today?”

Sherlock whipped around to look at John. He wasn’t sure how manic he looked, but he could guess by the resonating shock over John’s features.

“No, John.” Time time time. He was running out of it. “I _need_ a murder.”

His phone buzzed, and he looked down at the message, letting out an excited exclamation. “Thank god.” He grabbed his coat, ignoring the slight rattle of the pill bottle inside. “Come on, John,” he called over his shoulder, already making for the stairs. 


	4. Chapter 4

The case was obvious.

The murder was obvious.

The death was boring.

Lestrade hadn’t needed Sherlock’s help, really, he was just extending the courtesy because he had asked. Because it was an anniversary for Sherlock. Because time told him to.

John was watching Sherlock closely. From a distance, of course. He was loyal and a bit of a pushover, but he knew when to keep his distance and when to be near Sherlock.

This was not one of those times.

Sherlock wanted him closer. So close that they breathed the same air. So close that Sherlock could feel his body heat through his clothes. He wanted John’s hand on his arm, his eyes everywhere on him. He wanted heat, friction, _touch_.

John thought Sherlock was grieving, and that this was his way of showing it.

He was right, of course, but he was so wrong.

Sherlock wasn’t grieving for death, he was grieving for life.

Time was slowly ticking away, and not even a day had left him yet.

“So?” Lestrade asked. It had been three minutes. Couldn’t he bloody wait a little longer?

Sherlock took a small breath. “Mugging, obvious. Blow to the head, three to the neck. Concussion, bleeding, two snapped vertebrae. Not instant. The mugger took her purse and her shoes. She was wearing a ring, but he didn’t take it. It’s over there behind one of the garbage bags.” Sherlock sighed, his hands clenching in his pockets.

Not good enough. This wasn’t what he needed.

“Right. Thanks,” Lestrade said, writing down notes that he didn’t need to take.

Sherlock left.

Five minutes were gone. Five minutes that he could have spent doing something else, something far more important.

“Sherlock! Hang on.”

Sherlock stopped, waited until John had caught up. “What the bloody hell has got into you lately?”

“Nothing, John, I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Sherlock started walking. He didn’t want to take a cab, wanted to walk, to _breathe_ , to feel the crisp air and the pavement under the soles of his feet. He wanted to have his coat flutter around his legs and he wanted John beside him, to tell him he’s amazing, wonderful, brilliant.

He caught a cab.

John climbed in after him and soon they were on their way back to Baker Street.

“Sherlock, please? Talk to me. I know something’s up with you, and I know you say it isn’t because of your parents, but, please, mate. Come on.” Worried. John was legitimately worried. About him. About Sherlock.

Sherlock looked up, studied John, traced the lines of his face with his eyes and suddenly wished that he could do it with his fingers.

He wanted John beneath him, on top of him, beside him. He wanted John everywhere.

But John wouldn’t.

Sherlock had stopped hoping long ago.

“I assure you, John. I am… completely fine.” Lying. Lying. Everything in his tone, in his body, said that he was lying. Not fine. Not anywhere near fine. He was dying, decaying, being consumed from the inside out.

John seemed to have had enough. “Sherlock, honestly. Can you stop being such a self-indulgent, secretive freak for just one moment? Be normal and talk to me!”

Sherlock froze, turning to look at John. John. John. His John. His friend John.

 _Freak_.

“Stop the cab,” he said, leaning up and tapping on the driver’s shoulder.

Sherlock was out as soon as the vehicle had halted on the side of the road.

“Sherlock, no, wait, I didn’t mean –”

He turned back, stopping John from getting out.

“You were the only one who never called me that,” he said, his voice impassive.

Breaking. Shattering. Slipping closer and closer and still further away.

He closed the door of the cab and took off down the street.


	5. Chapter 5

It had been two days. Two long, exhausting, boring days. Two days in which John went to work and left Sherlock home, alone, stuck in his head and with his dying body. Two days in which John came home, looked at Sherlock, paused on the threshold. Two days in which John would open his mouth and try for words, but they would fail him every time. Two days in which John would make tea and dinner for them both, only to take his portions upstairs to his room.

Two days.

A lot can happen in two days. A baby can be born, a happy couple can get married. Mankind can put a man on the moon. A solar eclipse can happen. The earth could explode.

Nothing happened in the last two days, except Sherlock getting forty-eight hours closer to death.

He only had four days left.

He was weaker. Not eating. Hardly drinking. Barely moving.

He had no drive, no want. No pain, because of the stupid pills.

He didn’t know if John had seen them. He no longer cared.

It was morning now. John didn’t work. Something about a bank holiday. Sherlock hadn’t paid attention. What did holidays matter to him? He revolved around his work, not the calendar.

Four days. Four days. It would be a Tuesday, then. Time telling him when to die, when to let go.

John was making tea.

_You’re dying, Sherlock. Let go._

John was standing on the threshold.

Ticking. Ticking slowly through your fingers.

John was opening his mouth to say something.

“I’m dying.”

John closed his mouth, frowning at Sherlock with his mug of tea in his hands. “Don’t be ridiculous, Sherlock,” he chastised, still hanging around the doorway, still thinking that Sherlock was angry, hurt, lost. Still not knowing how to apologise. “Just because you haven’t had a case in a while doesn’t mean you’re dying. Something will come up.”

John was turning. John was walking away again.

“No, John,” Sherlock called out, standing, pushing to his feet. John didn’t believe him. John always believed him. “John… please. Listen to me,” he begged.

John turned around, his eyebrows raised, his mouth closed.

Sherlock never begged.

He would beg every day of his life for John Watson.

 _Four days_.

“Come here.” He led John back inside, walking into his bedroom. He grabbed the bottle of pills from his nightstand and tossed them at John.

“What are these?” John questioned, turning the bottle over, reading the label. “Pain killers? For what? Sherlock, what did you do?”

Sherlock smiled faintly, grabbing the diagnosis and the results of the testing, bringing them over to John.

“I told you, John. I’m dying.”

He watched John read the papers, watched his face contort in anger and denial, only to fall in shock and disbelief. John looked up, and Sherlock saw nothing but agony and grief.

“I’m so sorry, Sherlock,” he whispered, stepping forward, embracing him.

Sherlock didn’t even take the time to blink or think about it, and he was suddenly hugging John back, holding him. He buried his face against his shoulder, breathed him in, felt his warmth through his clothes. Close, close, so close.

“John,” he whispered, and his voice ripped. Agony. Pain. Regret. “John, I’m sorry,” he cried, sobbed, clung to John.

John held him, supported him. Rubbed his back.

Sherlock heard the papers slide to the floor. The death papers.

Time finally seemed to stop. They stood there for what felt like hours, sharing warmth, closeness.

And then John broke it, because Sherlock wasn’t strong enough to do so.

“How long?” he asked softly, pulling away. His left hand was knotted tight, trying to stop the tremble.

Sherlock wiped at his cheeks. “Four days, now,” he said softly. “I wasn’t going to tell you. I didn’t want you to get upset.”

John shook his head, exasperated. “You’re going to have to explain to me why you thought it was such a bloody brilliant idea to ignore this.”

Sherlock frowned, straightened up, opened his mouth.

He had no words.

“Come on,” John murmured, taking Sherlock by the wrist. “I’ll make us some tea.”


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock didn’t know how it had happened.

Twenty-four hours had passed, and John had been nice, kind. Same as always, same as usual. John helped. He cooked. He made Sherlock eat. Things were fairly normal. Sherlock solved a case without leaving the flat. It made him feel a little better.

It was mid-day. John had said he was going to make lunch, but when he had stood, he hadn’t moved. He was standing in front of his chair, flexing his hand. He was staring into space past Sherlock’s ear, his mouth a little open to get more air into his lunges.

Sherlock’s first instinct was to stand, to cross over to him. Cup his face with his palms, make their eyes meet.

“John,” he whispered, brushing his thumbs over his cheeks, trying to get those eyes to focus. “John, it’s okay. You’re not there anymore. Right? It’s been years. I know your shoulder still hurts, I know you still have nightmares, but you’re not there. John Watson, you come back to me this instant. I am dying and you are not allowed –”

Hands over his hands, lips pressed against his, hesitant, insistent, needing. Warmth. So much warmth, masking the shock, the suddenness.

A hand slid into his hair, and John was kissing him, deeply, strongly, with tongue and teeth and urgency.

Time constraint. Time was pulling at them.

 _Now_.

“John,” Sherlock gasped, John having pulled from his mouth to start down his neck, teasing his tendons with soft kisses and sharp, pinching nips. “I didn’t think…”

“You never think,” John replied, his voice low, growling. Wanting. Needing.

Sherlock needed John. Needed him now, or the fire in his veins would kill him.

Too soon. John first. Three days left.

Sherlock curled his fingers in John’s hair at the base of his skull, tipping his head back and kissing him hard, sloppy. Didn’t care. Didn’t care, just needed. Needed now.

John seemed to understand. He grabbed Sherlock’s lapels, pulling him along as he walked to the bedroom, Sherlock’s room, the room. Closest. No time for upstairs. Now.

Fingers fumbled at Sherlock’s buttons, and he reached down to help, keeping their lips connected as he worked his way out of his shirt.

They were in the room now, over the threshold, almost to the bed.

Sherlock surfaced for air, grabbing at the hem of John’s jumper and nearly yanking it off, discarding it across the room.

John didn’t care, didn’t mind. He just wanted Sherlock.

“You’re mine, even if only for a night,” John whispered, pulling Sherlock closer, running his fingers over the skin of his chest, pushing him gently down onto the bed and crawling over him.

“I am yours always, John,” Sherlock responded, closing his eyes for a moment, only a moment, as he took in the touch, the smell. John, _John_. Everything was John’s, every cell in Sherlock’s body was John’s.

John made a sound very low in his throat, sucking hard at Sherlock’s neck, trying and succeeding in bruising the delicate skin there.

Sherlock lifted his hips, wanting more of John, more than his lips.

“Slow down, Sherlock,” John chuckled, running his hands down smooth white skin, catching his fingers in Sherlock’s waistband and pulling.

Sherlock didn’t let him get them past his knees before he was reaching for John’s jeans, undoing the button and zip, pulling them down.

“Can’t go slow,” he breathed, finding it a bit difficult to speak, difficult to breathe, to think past the heat and the touch and _John_.

“Shh,” John whispered, he breath mixing with Sherlock’s as he leaned over him, closer, closer. They shared the same air, made it difficult to breathe, hard to get fresh oxygen. Sherlock’s chest rose and touched John’s. John’s hand wound in Sherlock’s hair. “I’ve got you, Sherlock. I promise. I’ll take care of you.”

Sherlock believed him.


	7. Chapter 7

The air was cooler now, swirling around lazily in the room, casting dust motes about and making them tumble into each other.

Sherlock was warm. His bare skin was against John’s, pressed against his side until he wasn’t really sure where he ended and John began. It was calming, cooling, a balm for his racing mind, his slow, ever-present count down.

Ticking away. Precious seconds, precious time. Getting closer, closer, constricting, choking, gagging.

“Hey.” It was a whispered breath, threaded with concern. It was enough to make Sherlock’s mind slow, to have him look up, meet John’s eyes, brush his mouth with John’s. “You’re alright, Sherlock,” he said, his eyes closed, his lips tender and delicate. Moving with Sherlock’s, controlling him, telling him where to be.

Present. Here. With John.

“I am now,” Sherlock responded, kissing John again, shivering at the slow slide of tongue that reminded him of heat, friction, John’s cock against his own, sliding, friction, both of their hands together, working them, friction, heat, panting, sucking. John swearing, calling him beautiful. Friction. Sherlock unable to stop his tears. John leaving them, petting his face. Friction, tension, bliss.

John hummed, smiling softly as he leaned away, looked at Sherlock the way he had always wished John would look at him.

Sherlock studied John, the lines of his face, the dexterity of his expression, the softness of his eyes. He watched the dust motes, red in the late afternoon light, float past his head, get caught in his hair. He traced the bright yellow hallow around his hair, showing the spots that were honey, gold, sandy, greying. He looked at the sparks of green in those oceanic eyes, the ones that sucked him in and held him, made him gasp for breath, made him drown.

Sherlock would dive into those eyes if he could.

“What are you thinking about?” Soft fingertips tracing his cheek, following the curve of it to his ear, down his jaw to his lips. Sherlock’s heart fluttered.

“You,” he replied honestly, opening his eyes, not remembering having closed them. “How beautiful you are. How perfect.”

John opened his mouth, obviously about to argue.

Sherlock pressed his hand over his lips, trapping the vibrant words inside. “Don’t,” he breathed, his eyes tracing everything he could see on John’s face, in his expressions.

John nodded, and Sherlock released him.

Three days left. John wasn’t allowed to contradict him or talk badly about himself.

“You’re okay, Sherlock.” Gentle fingers through his hair, and Sherlock settled down, resting his head on John’s chest once more. “Get some rest.”

“Will you still be here when I wake up?”

“Until the end.”


	8. Chapter 8

A day and a half gone. John made tea, breakfast, lunch, supper. Took Sherlock to Angelo’s, to the Chinese place down the road. Made him drink too much, asked him to have an actual drink with him. He didn’t complain when Sherlock went out for his last cigarette.

It was evening. The sun was going down, the street lamps were slowly starting to glow their amber colour, waiting for true dark so that they could shine bright white.

Dictated by time, controlled by time. Different time nearly every day, but it was still time. Time passed, it ticked, it flowed, it raced. It never stopped.

Approximately sixty hours left.

Too much.

Not enough.

Sherlock didn’t talk about it. Neither did John. They both wanted to. It was itching their skin, making them crawl and shiver. Brimming at the surface and bubbling like a deadly toxin. It was clouding the air, corrupting their conversations.

Sherlock stood from his chair, the chair he had been sitting in all day, talking to people. Mrs Hudson, Lestrade, Mycroft, Anderson, Sally, John, and then John again, when there was no one left.

People were insignificant, conversations pointless.

But not John. John was precious and falling apart and Sherlock could see it perfectly well.

John was sipping tea, staring down into the mug, trying to glean secrets from it, trying to pull some miracle out of it.

Sherlock slipped into his lap without asking. He curled up, resting his head on John’s shoulder, his hand on John’s chest. Time slowed, as it always did when he was around John. He appreciated breathing more, as it allowed him to take in John’s particular scent. He appreciated touch more, because he could feel John’s jumper and his stubble when he cupped his cheek. Appreciated taste because he could lean up and tangle their tongues and _John_ flooded his mouth, overriding his system.

“Stop thinking,” he whispered, relaxing again and closing his eyes with his head on John’s shoulder. He was exhausted, drained, running on his last few wires.

He was thinning.

It was coming.

Coming to get him and take him away, separate him from John, permanently this time.

“You never stop thinking. That’s hypocrisy.”

Sherlock chuckled softly. “When have I ever been a man of honour or fairness?” he asked softly, nuzzling against John.

He didn’t like the wounded sound that John made, or the desperate tightening of his arms around Sherlock. “I’m so sorry, Sherlock,” John cried, pressing his face into Sherlock’s hair, trembling as he held on.

Sherlock didn’t say anything. He had already told John that it wasn’t his fault. Multiple times, actually. He had reassured, comforted, promised, held.

He lifted his hand, brushing his fingers through John’s hair, over and over and over and over, letting him cry, not caring that his hair and scalp were dampening. They could just shower it off together later. John needed solidity right now, because Sherlock wouldn’t be here later.

Fifty-nine hours.

“I love you,” Sherlock said, confidently, softly, reverently. “Always, I will love you, John.”

John cried harder, but there were soft notes of laughter trying to fight their way in.

Satisfied, Sherlock wrapped his arms around John’s waist and settled in, breathing in John’s calming aroma, and slowly, gently, carefully, fell asleep.


	9. Chapter 9

**Thirty hours.**

It took John fifteen minutes to wake Sherlock up. He struggled to open his eyes, struggled to sit up, to walk to his chair. He forced down food, not caring what it was, not tasting it, not noticing it going down his throat.

**Twenty-eight hours.**

Sherlock threw up his breakfast and tea. John sat with him in the bathroom until it stopped. He slowly helped Sherlock to his feet, half-carrying him into the bedroom.

**Twenty-four hours.**

John had been on the phone with Mycroft earlier, now he was talking to the doctors, asking if there is anything, _anything_ to do, anything to make Sherlock better.

Sherlock hated the crack in John’s voice, the sound of defeat.

**Sixteen hours.**

John started crying, murmuring to Sherlock, asking him for another miracle, saying that he didn’t care if it was selfish. He didn’t want Sherlock to die.

Sherlock didn’t want to die. He wanted to be with John forever, to die with him, not decades before him.

**Twelve hours.**

John was asleep, his head on Sherlock’s chest. He hadn’t meant to, but Sherlock didn’t mind. He wasn’t going anywhere yet, and John needed the rest. The stress would kill him, too, if he wasn’t careful, and Sherlock couldn’t have that.

**Ten hours.**

Sherlock struggled to breathe, his hand clawing at his chest, his other hand reaching for John, pulling him awake. Sherlock cried, sobbed, gasping for breath, refusing to leave.

John.

_John needs me. Can’t leave John._

**Eight hours.**

Sherlock couldn’t do it anymore. John was hugging him close, lying on top of him, nuzzling into his neck, combing through his hair. He was whispering nonsense, telling Sherlock that it was okay, that he would be okay, that they both would.

Sherlock didn’t believe him. Lying. John was a terrible liar.

How could either of them survive this?

**Seven and a half hours.**

Sherlock let go.

John cried, sobbed. He was hysterical, gripping Sherlock to him, screaming in unfairness. He hadn’t told him that he loved him, hadn’t promised to never stop. He wasn’t sure if Sherlock knew or not.

**Seven hours.**

The paramedics showed up.

**Six hours.**

John was finally convinced to leave Sherlock’s side.

**One hour.**

John was halfway through a bottle of liquor.

**Zero hours.**

**Negative two hours.**

**Negative five hours.**

**Negative two months.**

**Negative two years.**

John still visits Sherlock’s grave. He still cries, puts out fresh flowers. He talks to him, asks him to come back, even though he knows that this time he won’t.

“I love you,” he whispers, every day, and then he leaves.


End file.
